


Scars

by tumbleweedchaser



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleweedchaser/pseuds/tumbleweedchaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock inquires about John's scars, then things get a bit out of hand.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>John’s jaw dropped slightly, leaving his mouth to fall agape, as his eyebrows knitted together, etching a look of utter confusion on his face, “What?”</i><br/><i>“I have never seen you without a shirt on,” said Sherlock, “or a robe or a hospital gown. You’re always covered.” He gestured vaguely at John, “You’ve lived here over a year and I’ve never seen you shirtless.”</i><br/><i>“Did you get dressed to solve the case of what I look like shirtless?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wanted to do a scene like this when I was writing The Secrets of John Watson series, but it just never came up. Of course, this one is certainly lacking in plot.

John sat in his armchair and skimmed over the newspaper, browsing for cases that might be of some interest for Sherlock. He chuckled lightly to himself at the thought that at some point in his life it had become normal for him to read obituaries and articles about unsolved murders and feel pleased to find one of interest.

Unfortunately, neither the paper nor the Yard nor the British Government had yielded anything of particular interest in well over a week—growing dangerously close to two—and the detective was beginning to push the limits of even John’s patience and tolerance. Sherlock had grown mold in John’s favorite coffee mug, done something suspicious to John’s toothbrush, placed brains of an unknown origin in the refrigerator, utterly destroyed both the microwave and the television, placed some absurd password on John’s laptop (which he later changed to avoid the captain’s wrath), possibly drugged Mrs. Hudson, possibly contaminated the water sources at Speedy’s, and had begun tearing pages out of John’s medical catalogs. To John’s knowledge, the ever increasingly bored consulting detective had not changed out of his pajamas and robe in at least three days. He was beginning to look as though he might have just escaped the jungle.

So, John skimmed over the paper a second time, just to be sure he hadn’t missed something. He heard Sherlock enter the room and move towards his own armchair, but continued to hold the paper up, hoping the detective would take it as a sign that John had not yet forgiven him for his most recent ‘experiment’.

“I require your assistance,” said Sherlock.

John dropped his arms so that they rested on his legs, moving the paper from view and giving him sight of Sherlock. The detective had showered, his hair was tamed, and he was wearing one of his suits. He stood in front of John and peered down at the doctor.

“Found a case?”

“No,” said Sherlock with a grimace, “but it occurred to me that I have never seen you shirtless.”

John’s jaw dropped slightly, leaving his mouth to fall agape, his eyebrows knitted together, etching a look of utter confusion on his face, “What?”

“I have never seen you without a shirt on,” said Sherlock, “or a robe or a hospital gown. You’re always covered.” He gestured vaguely at John, “You’ve lived here over a year and I’ve never seen you shirtless.”

“Did you get dressed to solve the case of what I look like shirtless?”

Sherlock huffed, “I don’t care what you look like shirtless.”

“Then—“

“Your scar.”

“Ah,” said John, “somehow that makes sense.”

“So you’ll show it to me?”

“Why did you get dressed?” asked John.

“To create a professional atmosphere,” stated Sherlock, “obviously.”

“Mmhmm.”

Sherlock glared at him, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Show me your scar.”

“Why?”

The detective frowned at him, “What do you mean, "Why?”

“I want to know the reason for your sudden interest in my scar,” said John, a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

“I have to have a reason to take interest in you?”

John laughed, “I had no idea you were interested in me.”

Sherlock growled with frustration, “Interest in your scar. It could be useful.”

“So you want to look at my scar for what, science?”

“No, I—“ The detective scowled at him, “I’m just curious.”

John leaned back in his chair, folding the newspaper in his lap and looked up at Sherlock, who appeared to be getting more and more flustered. “You sure you don’t just want to see me shirtless?” he asked with a laugh.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped down into his armchair with a huff, “You’re being ridiculous. I simply wish to examine the scar tissue.”

“It’s a scar, Sherlock, bullet went in and then went out. What’s to see?”

The detective scowled again, working into a pout in hopes John would concede.

“How long do you intend to poke and prod at my shoulder?”

“I’d only need a short time to examine it.”

“And in return?”

Sherlock threw his head back into the armchair and examined the ceiling, “I’ll swear to never experiment on or with any of your belongings in the bathroom ever again.”

“Just the ones in the bathroom?”

“Don’t be greedy, John,” said Sherlock, looking up to scowl at him again. He watched as John considered it, weighing the benefits of a clean toothbrush to letting Sherlock look at his scar. 

“Fine.”

Sherlock practically jumped from his chair at the word, “Excellent! Now remove that hideous jumper.”

With a roll of his eyes, John tossed the newspaper aside and inched forward in his chair, “This is going to end poorly,” he muttered as he reached behind him to gather the fabric of his jumper and pull it over his head. Sherlock watched as John pulled off his jumper and the white undershirt with it, his blonde hair disappearing in the fabric before reappearing along with his exposed shoulders, a hint of torso, a bit of chest. John slid the garments from his arms and tossed them to the floor. He made a sort of vague gesture towards the bullet scar with his right hand, “Here you go."

Sherlock couldn't help but stare, he realized it, even knew it was probably not-good, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He’d asked to see John’s scar, but he should have requested to see his scars. Plural. There were at least a dozen it would seem. He could see the circular pucker of skin at John’s left shoulder, but along his clavicle Sherlock saw the smooth, shiny scar left from some form of surgery, another suggested John had no appendix. There were several along his arms, some old and faded, others earned within the last year. There were raised bits of scar tissue from shoddy stitch work done by untrained hands in the desert, another Sherlock suspected John had stitched himself, and a curved red line along his left side that disappeared down his leg below his trousers. And all that was what he could see standing in front of him.

“You just going to stand there staring at me all day or come take a look?” asked John, the sarcasm practically dripped from his mouth, “I guess you did just want my shirt off.”

Sherlock's face reformed his scowl and he moved to sit on the arm of the chair to John’s left so that he could get a better look at the old bullet wound. John leaned forward onto his elbows, giving Sherlock a better view.

From the front, it was obvious to tell the bullet had been large but the scar was unassuming, just a small ring of slightly raised flesh. From behind however, the scar told a different story. Every stitch of torn and jagged flesh had left a story on John’s skin, raising the flesh and leaving it red and angry. How he had managed to survive was a wonder of modern medicine.

But Sherlock wasn’t looking at the bullet scar; instead, his eyes examined John’s back. He looked at the evidence of a stabbing, of shrapnel nicks and hard falls, at the military tattoo on his right shoulder. 

“I’d never have pegged you for the tattoo type,” said Sherlock. 

John laughed, “Military, bunch of us got ‘em when we had a bit of leave.”

“.50 Caliber?”

“Yeah.”

“Sepsis.”

“Mmm,” said John, “the infection was the worst bit.”

“Worse than getting shot?”

“Shock took care of that, I don’t remember the pain of being shot, just the fear of being in the sand, watching others fall one by one beside me,” he paused, inhaling deeply before continuing, “but the infection, it was bloody awful. The fever was dangerously high, brought on hallucinations and, well, it felt like it went on forever.”

Sherlock frowned slightly in response, though John couldn’t see it, as he was focused on looking at the floor. Sherlock continued to look over the various points of scar tissue. His eyes fell on the red line on John’s side. The thin line emerged from John’s trousers just over the front of his hip bone, curving upward and wrapping around his waist where it continued to his back and trailed up as if reaching for his spine but faded away several inches before its goal. There was another thin, raised line that ran nearly parallel to his spine.

Sherlock had only intended to look, but John seemed amiable enough and the desire to reach out and run a finger along that red line was becoming irresistible. He reached out with his left hand, allowing his index and middle finger to contact the line of the scar along John’s waist. John jumped at the touch, obviously having not expected it, “Thought you were looking at the bullet wound?”

“What is this from?” asked Sherlock, as he dragged his fingers along the line. John squirmed and laughed under the touch, settling again as Sherlock’s fingers reached his back. “You’re ticklish,” said Sherlock, as a smile crept over his lips.

“Shut it,” said John, looking over his shoulder to glance at the detective. Sherlock looked at him, his fingers still pressed gently along John’s back where the scar ended and began fading away. Their eyes met for a moment before John’s cheeks began to redden and he turned to look away, clearing his throat uncomfortably, “I fell during basic training, landed on this thing they used for training, the wire was not exactly cushioning.”

Sherlock let his other fingers and thumb rest against John’s back, absorbing the heat of John’s skin below his fingertips. He dragged his hand down to the short, straight scar just above his right kidney, noting the way John moved under his touch—tensing at first and then relaxing. “This is relatively new,” said Sherlock, “when were you stabbed?”

John fixed his gaze on the floor, looking guilty, “Third case I went on with you, the guy in the alley.”

“You never—“

“You ended up in the hospital yourself that night,” said John, “if you knew I’d been injured you wouldn’t have stopped to let yourself heal… I mean, well, that sounded a bit—“

“True,” said Sherlock, “but the location is—“

“I was lucky, it was shallow, the damage wasn’t that bad.”

“And this one?” asked Sherlock, running his four fingers up John’s spine in a line that traced over the thin scar.

John’s reaction was different than before, his right arm launched itself out to grab hold of the chair, his shoulders tensed and his back arched as he sucked in a shuddering breath, “Jesus, Sherlock.” He meant for it to sound angry, but instead it was tainted with, _desperation? Desire?_

Sherlock swallowed and, without meaning to, licked his lips. “Well,” he said, “what is it from?”

John gathered himself together, his answer was delayed and nearly whispered, embarrassed, “A wire, sprang loose. I was a kid when it happened.”

“Interesting,” said Sherlock and he ran his fingers back down the length of the scar. A quiet, suppressed moan escaped John’s lips. Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip, he noted the way his own breath shortened at the sound and his pulse picked up as heat began to pool between his legs. 

John’s shoulders tensed, Sherlock could see the blush in the tips of his ears, and he cleared his throat again. Sherlock removed his hand from John’s back and suddenly felt very cold. The doctor leaned forward to pick up his jumper and Sherlock watched, with wide eyes, the way John’s back moved and the muscles stretched.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it, but before he could reason with the idea, Sherlock had leaned forward, practically falling into the chair beside John, and ran his tongue up John’s spine from the middle of his back up between the man’s shoulder blades.

John could not suppress the moan this time nor the way he leaned back into the sensation, giving Sherlock access to lick a second broad stripe up the bumps of his spine to his neck. Sherlock felt himself grow more excited as he was rewarded by another of John’s moans. He moved in closer, crowding into John’s space even more, not bothering to attempt to remain on the arm of the chair any longer. The detective grazed his teeth over the nape of John’s neck, unconsciously bucking his hips forward as he did so, so that his erection pushed into John’s hip. 

John swore and reached out with his right hand, clutching at Sherlock’s knee, “What—“ he began through a panted breath, “are you doing?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what he was doing. He’d honestly only wanted to see John’s scar and now his lips and groin seemed to have commandeered control of his brain. He planted a kiss along the curve of John’s neck, and another over his pulse point, and then licked up along the side of his neck before nipping the space below his jaw, he rutted into John again when the man shuddered and shivered at his touch and stretched out his neck as if in offering.

“Sherlock?” said John, his breath was heavy, he sounded like he was struggling to speak, “Answer my question.”

“Question?” asked Sherlock, before taking the lobe of John’s ear into his mouth to gently suck on it, he hummed happily at what sounded like a whimper coming from John. 

“What—Christ, Sherlock,” John gasped as Sherlock licked over the helix of his ear, “wh-what are you doing?”

“Tasting you,” said Sherlock, who’d decided his position was uncomfortable and inadequate. He pushed himself forward with his right hand and swung a leg forward over John so that he was straddling the doctor, he trailed kisses along John's jaw. Sherlock felt the twitch of John’s own erection below him, responding to Sherlock’s new position, to the touch of his lips. The detective bucked forward, grinding the bulge in his trousers against John’s, causing him to suck in another stuttering breath as he closed his eyes and threw his head back into the chair.

“Why?” John gasped, as Sherlock nipped at his adam’s apple and pressed his hands into his sides, feeling the softness and warmth of John's skin. 

“Because,” said Sherlock, frustrated that John was still asking questions but pleased that he wasn't stopping him. He kissed and licked his way to John’s sternum before grazing his teeth against John’s skin again. Sherlock smiled at the sound of John’s breath hitching.

“Because why?”

“Because this,” replied Sherlock, as he reached one hand behind John and skimmed his fingers up along John’s spine again, coaxing another shiver and gasped moan from the doctor. Before John could ask him another question, Sherlock kissed John’s nipple, and as John inhaled a surprised breath the detective followed the kiss with a lick, gliding his wet tongue over the erect nipple and surprising himself with his own deep moan as John bucked his hips, thrusting wantonly.

The detective licked again, flitting the tip of his tongue over John’s nipple before circling it and taking it in, gently sucking. Sherlock felt John’s hand in his hair, heard John moan his name, tasted him on his tongue, smelled his scent and suddenly none of it was enough. He dragged his hands across John’s torso, reached the button of John’s trousers and deftly unbuttoned them. He pulled John from his pants, allowing his erection to bob freely. Sherlock ran a teasing finger along the underside of John’s length and grinned with impish pride as John cursed, questioned if he was dreaming, and tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock slid down John’s body, settling himself on the floor, kneeling between John’s knees. His blogger looked down at him, pupils blown wide, panting, perspiring, flushed, and desperate, he licks his lips and swallowed with anticipation. The detective dropped his gaze to John’s length, his prize, and he mirrored John, licking his own lips with want. The detective looked up at John, begging for permission with eyes and felt himself surge with excited energy when John gave a slight nod. Leaning forward, he licked the trail his finger had teased, lapped his tongue over the frenulum, tasted the bit of pre-come at the head and took John into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the head. Sherlock moaned at the heavenly taste and the magnificent vocalizations coming from John.

Sherlock took John into his mouth, slowly inching his way down, tongue working the hot flesh of John’s length until he was pressing at the back of Sherlock's throat. Then John’s hand was in his hair again as he swore and growled and moaned all at once. Sherlock pulled back slightly, dropped down again, swallowed around John, and loved the feel of him in his mouth, under his hands, on his head. 

Sherlock reached down, releasing his own aching erection as he continued sucking off John, he wrapped a hand around himself and imagined John’s mouth. Pressing his tongue against John’s length, he sank down on him again and looked up to find John staring down at him in awe. 

He didn't break eye contact.

Their eyes remained locked as Sherlock sucked and coaxed John to climax before spilling into his own hand at the sight of John coming undone, the sound of his pleasure, the taste of his cum. John was praising him, _Brilliant. Beautiful. Magnificent. Fantastic. Incredible._ The list went on.

When Sherlock finally pulled away, having swallowed every drop of John, he let himself sit back onto his feet, he stared at the floor.

He was suddenly struck by an odd fear, _What if John didn’t actually want that? What if he’d just gotten caught up in the moment? What if he’s angry? What if he thinks I planned this? What the hell did I just do?_

“Stop it.”

Sherlock looked up to find John smiling at him. The doctor slid off of his chair, sinking onto the floor with Sherlock. He leaned forward and kissed the detective on the lips. It was warm, kind, soothing.

“You’re worrying,” said John, “stop it.”

“But—“

“No,” said John, “I’m a grown man, if I didn’t want it I would have said so and quite frankly I’m stronger than you, it wouldn’t have been hard to get you locked up in a hold if needed.” He kissed him again, running a gentle hand through his hair, he looked him in the eyes, “Thank you” he said, “This was wonderful and I loved it and I’d be happy to do it again, perhaps even the other way ‘round. Or, if you didn’t like it I won’t expect anything.”

Sherlock relaxed and returned John’s kiss, “I think I’d like to do it again, or, at least something like it.”

John smiled and then laughed, “I knew you just wanted to see me without my shirt on.”

Sherlock laughed, “I didn’t realize what I’d been missing out on all this time.”


End file.
